


Delicate Clockwork

by KisaTM



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Business problems, Gen, Sad, Short One Shot, Shuu isn't referred to by name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 04:41:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8518876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KisaTM/pseuds/KisaTM
Summary: May or may not have planned this for a certain *cough* Zine *cough* project… I might still do the art for this, I’ll see if I have the time to…





	

**Author's Note:**

> May or may not have planned this for a certain *cough* Zine *cough* project… I might still do the art for this, I’ll see if I have the time to…

His hands tremble slightly as he wraps the wire around the interlocking pins in the chest piece. For years it has been the same routine of adjusting, and readjusting. Though, for some reason, they could never be perfect enough for him. The mass of endless cogs would always end up grinding in a tempo, that left him clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth in distaste. 

‘Not good enough, not good enough.’ Was the mantra that repeated itself in his mind as it traveled a mile a second. Again, he rips out the cogs, springs, and pins. Again he sands the wooden interior and outer case. It was never smooth enough for him.

Two gems of worthless value to most, lay on his wooden workplace. A grayed amethyst, one you could mistake for silver in the right light. The second a impure ruby sapphire, with so many flaws no jeweler would deem worthy of their collection. They sit infused by glass, gazing up at the hollow mask they one day would occupy.

With tears and the fruitless sweat of the day running down his ever so tired face, the sleepless artisan, clicks the gold and oak chest piece shut. He goes into his bag of tools and puts oil into his bronze wrist. An accident when he was younger, and reminder of his endless work. Sighing once more he gets up and leaves his beloved chair.

Though the summer nights are warm, the workshop remained unnaturally cool. Clientele would comment sometimes of the somberness that washed every facet of the old workhouse to the core. At one time people from all parts of the world would wonder in, not just for what was contained inside the rustic building, but also from the intoxicating aroma of well made coffee. A scent that over time had faded into saw dust.

The energy of those days were lost on both the store and it’s owner. Handcrafted gizmos, widgets, and other do-dads that once flew off the shelves, sometimes quite literally, now lay dormant under piles of dust. The floors that had greeted so many different feet, creaked with an apprehensive attitude, as if perturbed by the notion of being disturbed by any less than a shoe made of pure satin cloth.

“I will not ask you again, sell this pitiful atelier to me and be done with it.” A man clad in a fine silk suit said to the owner. He was the most popular, if not the only customer that had walked through the shop’s bronze carved doors in the last few months. The bills on the property had been piling up and were past due. The man had offered to buy off the debt, in exchange of the halls it was tied to. “Besides, Mr. Nagachika, it’s not healthy for you to be stressing over this. Much less… Breathing in this, uh, dust all day.”

“You know why I can’t do that…” The owner’s voice dull and as lifeless as his leftover works. He puts down the yellowed parchment of which he was offered numerous times before, and removed his glasses. What the man said was true, but had a vile venom behind the words, that he did not want to address today. “It’s just… Been a bad month…”

“A bad month?” The man scoffs. “A bad month. He says! This whole year has been a bad month! Look what I’m offering is very reasonable. Just sign the agreement and I’ll take care of the bank. Plain and simple.”

“I just need more time.” The owner responds deadpan, as if practiced and said a thousand times before.

“Look, the next person to walk through that door is not going to be a patron.” The man said frustrated. He puts the abandoned page back in it’s cream coloured folder, and hands it back to the owner. “When you are finally done squabbling and hiding away like an undisciplined dastard, mail this to me by the end of the week. We’ll talk about the rest of the details at a later date and hopefully before the bank forecloses you, hm?”

“…” He was so tired, so, so tired of this. He bids the want to be proprietor farewell, with no more than a silent glance as the shops chimes jingled their solemn used songs. The folder crinkled slightly in his grip, before tossed upon the stack of already forgotten bills, as he turns to return to his office. Back to his beloved.

“We are going to be okay… Kaneki…”


End file.
